


Feel First, Ask Questions Later

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Dominant Bottom, M/M, Service Top, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 14:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon likes feeling useful.</p><p>For an anon prompt: "Toews is a service top for control freak Kaner." Total PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feel First, Ask Questions Later

**Author's Note:**

> Contains BDSM with a lack of safewords and arguable consensual non-consent.  
> Thanks be to BHTV for that workout video. Kaner's _back_.

They're supposed to be going out with some of the guys, but Jon's not so sure it's going to happen when he lets himself into Kaner's hotel room and Kaner's shirtless and standing aimlessly in the middle of the room rubbing the heel of his hand against his thigh.

"You up for working me over instead of going out?" he asks before Jon has a chance to say hello, and he sounds nervous, like there's a chance Jon would ever refuse to give him what he needs.

"Yeah, sure." Wasting time won't do them any favors or help Jon's nerves. He kicks his shoes and socks off and starts stripping out of his sweatshirt and jeans before Kaner even moves. He's texting someone, probably to make excuses for them staying in. "Can you get your belt?" Jon would do it himself but Kaner will pitch a fit if Jon messes with his stuff. He's still glad they're in Kaner's room; Jon's belt is narrower and meaner, harder to handle. 

Kaner doesn't answer, doesn't even look up from his phone as he walks over to the alcove where his suit's hanging neatly to pull it out of his dress slacks and toss it on the bed. 

"Warm-up?" Jon asks.

"Huh?" Kaner says as he looks up from his phone, biting his lip. "Oh. Yeah." He's texting one-handed while he moves the remote from the bedside table to the TV stand, throws away the water bottle Jon left behind when they'd napped here this afternoon. Kaner hates when it's cluttered, always knocking shit over or shoving it out of the way until he gets fed up.

Jon moves the luggage stand to empty the wall opposite the end of Kaner's bed, slips by the desk chair to close the curtains and turn up the thermostat. This is what passes as domestic for them, he thinks, Kaner puttering around a strange hotel room while Jon gets ready to beat the shit out of him. 

Kaner doesn't complain when Jon pulls the phone out of his hand and tosses it onto the far bed, just says, "And hey," and catches Jon's arm. "I don't want to be able to stop." He turns away to put his palms flat on the wall, legs spread, wiggling his bare toes against the cheap carpet. He's still wearing his jeans, like he wants to keep it impersonal as long as he can.

For most of the time they've been doing this Kaner's been all about feeling good, where feeling good can mean anything from getting fucked to getting the shit kicked out of him. This. . .this is what the fidgeting and nerves are all about. This is him actually giving up control, asking Jon to do that for him. It's not the first time it's happened, but it's close. Jon's glad for the pretense of privacy of Kaner turning. It makes the moment he pauses before he steps up to Kaner's back seem deliberate and not because he's rubbing a hand over his mouth to take a minute and breathe. He's still turning it over in his head even as he's scratching his fingernails over Kaner's shoulders.

Kaner's skin marks easily, pink lines coming up under Jon's blunt nails without any real effort. He's filled out a lot since they were rookies, a broad back narrowing to a thick waist, solidly built no matter how much the guys might chirp him for it. He takes it easily when Jon starts drumming light and quick with his fists, like he'd punch Kaner in the arm if he said something stupid. Kaner's groaning softly; he sounds like a porn soundtrack, voice trembling with the impact like he's getting fucked. 

Jon doesn't get off on hurting Kaner, not the way Kaner does. Giving Kaner what he wants, being that backstop for him to push against, that's what he gets out of it. Getting to _do_ something and not _feel_ , to get to that place where the only parts of himself that matter are his body and his focus. So it always manages to surprise him how much he _likes_ finally getting to hit Kaner for real, leaning into the punch like he'd throw in a fight. 

He can tell the endorphins have started doing their work because Kaner laughs a little, like he's surprised at how good it feels. It's infectious. Jon's smiling at the sound, punching him like that a few more times, loud smacking thuds with real weight behind them, and Kaner's feet spread wider and his elbows give a little to absorb the blows, ready to take anything Jon can hit him with. 

Jon steps to the side so he can see Kaner's face, smoothes one hand over his pink back and presses his other hand firmly to Kaner's crotch. He's hard already, Jon can feel it even before he gets his jeans open, and Kaner hisses with a feral little wrinkle of his nose, baring his teeth and breathing fast.

"You doing okay?" Jon asks politely. He's not gentle about groping Kaner through his underwear. 

"I'm good." There's a smile tugging at the corner of Kaner's mouth, but he keeps his eyes on the wall like he's being interrogated, like he's out to win something even though he's already forfeited. It goes along with giving up the choice to stop and the jeans and the warm-up he only goes for so he can take more. Everything he's doing is to drag it out. 

Touching him like that is a mistake, not because of any impact on Kaner, but the feel of having Kaner's cock jumping hot and hard in Jon's hand even through thin stretched cotton is a distraction he doesn't need. This isn't about him. It's about Kaner—and not the eager twitches of his hips, no matter how tempting they are.

Jon forces himself to step away abruptly to leave Kaner there, hard-on poking obscenely at his boxers through his open zipper, and picks up the belt. The brass buckle's cool in his hand as he loops it over. 

He keeps his weight even on his feet, lets his arm fall smoothly to lay down one heavy slap after another, keeping his rhythm and pattern clockwork steady and predictable, something Kaner can sink into even as the hits get harder. His concentration is all on the easy in-out of Kaner’s breathing now, the way he's curling his shoulders in so his back arches into the impact, begging for it the only way he's willing.

After a while Kaner leans in farther as Jon hits him, until his forehead's touching his arms where he's drawn them in flat on the wall and he’s making noises too low and guttural to be moans of pure pleasure, too complicated. His heels come off the ground after some of them, or his head drops down between his arms. Jon lets the rhythm fade and a gap forms after every stroke to give him time to take it in, let the groove between his shoulderblades smoothe out before Jon will land another hit. 

Jon's done when there are red welts criss-crossing where the edges of the belt dug in, so dark they're almost purple where they overlap. Any more and he'll break the skin. He puts his hand on the small of Kaner's back, follows the path of his spine from the cool skin there past the heat of his shoulders with his hand, gripping his neck to pull his head away from the wall.

"I'm _fine_ ," Kaner says, trying to jerk out of Jon's hand. On nights like tonight when he's doing everything he can to make it last he'd go until he couldn't stand. Like if he pushes hard enough, if he hurts enough, he'll forget about every dropped pass and bounce he couldn't save, every dumb call he couldn't change. Jon thumbs the curls at the nape of his neck feeling weirdly apologetic, like he should be offering him some kind of consolation that he can't push him that way. 

That's not his job though. His job is to give Kaner what he needs, not just what he wants, and there's a deep sense of satisfaction at seeing that out for Kaner's sake. Kaner's not the only one with frustration to deal with, only Jon's more inclined to turn his on himself—if the team fails, he's failed, and if he's a failure what use is he?—so it's good for him too. He likes feeling useful. 

Jon squeezes hard on the back of Kaner's neck, shakes him a little. "Then take your pants off and lay down," he says. "I'm not opening your back up." He's got a lot of practice at sounding authoritative, and it's helped when he walks away.

In the bathroom Jon splashes his face with water and fills a paper coffee cup, drinks it and fills it again. Kaner's naked and face down on top of the blankets when he comes out. He's turned off the overhead light so his face is shadowed, turned away from the table lamp on the nightstand.

Jon lays down next to him and props himself up on his elbow while Kaner sips his water, kicks his leg out over Kaner's calves and runs his free hand down over his ass. There's a bruise on his hip worse than anything Jon's willing to give during the season, and he prods at where it's turning green while he waits for Kaner to finish. He tosses the empty cup on the floor when Kaner hands it to him; it's easier than maneuvering for the table and it annoys Kaner.

Kaner looks wryly amused by Jon's baiting more than annoyed until Jon brings his hand down hard with no warning, right at the top of his thigh.

" _Son of a bitch_." And yeah, now Kaner looks annoyed. Jon does it again to the other thigh, a slap that rings off the walls and makes Kaner yell, a question. It's Kaner's last chance. He still looks pissed but pointedly turns his head away.

Jon gives him two more on each side of his ass, right on the sit spot. Calling it spanking sounds childish and fake and nothing like this feels, intimate and personal, bare hands on bare sensitive skin. Kaner hates it. He might have asked for it, but that doesn't make it easy. It's not meant to be easy. 

"You want me to stop?" 

Kaner nods, grunts when Jon smacks him again and holds on to a good handful. Then, because he knows Kaner needs to hear it, "You know I'm not going to." 

Kaner nods again, jerkily, trembling a little under Jon's hand, and when Jon lets go he watches some of the tension go out of him in one long sigh as his head sinks into the pillow. It's not the pain Kaner needs, the same way it's not the sex, or the drinking. They're a means to an end, obliterating the part of him that has to have a hand in everything, has to get the last word in, has to _control_ everything. 

Jon doesn't get off on hurting him, but watching him finally get to that place in his head of accepting what's happening to him, when Kaner's where he wants to be because he can trust Jon to put him there—that is a fucking _thrill_. He's walking a tightrope between what Kaner wants and what he needs: make it good but make him work for it, push him to his limits but not over them, hurt but don't injure. It's bigger than sex, exhilarating in the way challenges always are for Jon, but it's hot too, watching Kaner's thighs ease apart when he smacks him again, like he's gone through hating it and come out the other side. His hips tilt eagerly against the bed for the friction, turning up the full curve of his ass. 

Nice as it is to see, it means Jon has to push hard if he's going to do it right. Kaner won't be satisfied if he enjoys it too much.

He slides up the arm he's been leaning on to grip Kaner's hands, giving him something to hold onto as much as he's holding him, and when he starts again it only counts as a rhythm because it's constant, hard and fast and fucking deafening. Kaner's yanking at his hands and bucking against his leg, but Jon's not concerned with that. The only way for Kaner to be sure he can't get loose is to try. 

Jon's palm burns and the tension rippling through Kaner's back coils tighter and tighter as Jon hits him; he'd be curling up on the bed if he weren't pinned. He's whimpering half-formed words that aren't quite begging, and Jon's focusing minutely on those noises and the feel of him under Jon's hands to tell when he's had enough, gives him as much as Kaner thinks he can take and then a little more. The first sound after Jon finally stops is Kaner giving a high moan, broken with relief, and even muffled it echos loudly in the sudden quiet. 

Jon moves the leg pinning him and massages at his clenched fists to let him know he can relax. Kaner has his chin against his chest, knobbly vertebrae standing out in relief until Jon smoothes a hand over his neck and makes him relax that too, face mashed into the pillow and hidden by his arm. 

There are a handful of livid, accusatory stripes on his back Jon can't take his eyes off of, lymph welling up at the edges. Kaner's given him the spiel before: the worst of the soreness will work out in practice tomorrow, be unnoticeable by the game Wednesday, and Kaner will jerk off thinking about it for a week. 

Jon doesn't really want to see them anymore, but Kaner's still shuddering a little once in a while, aftershocks. He rubs the stinging palm of his hand soothingly across the small of Kaner's back and waits to take the chance to slip back off the bed until those quiet too, when Kaner's completely still for maybe the first time since Jon saw him slumped on the bench in the locker room after the game. 

"The fuck you think you're going?" Kaner slurs while he still has one knee on the mattress.

"Thought you were asleep," Jon says. "I didn't want to bug you." He feels his face get hot, skin tight like it did when he used to get caught sneaking out after curfew as a teenager. 

"Liar." Kaner sounds half-asleep, or drugged, and he's flinging his arm out blindly to paw at Jon's shoulder as he says, "C'mere," pulling Jon down until he's close enough to kiss, hand on the back of Jon's neck. It's the first time Kaner's touched _him_ all night and it's strangely foreign after spending all that time honed in on Kaner. He's being dragged back into what _he's_ feeling instead and it's overwhelming feeling it all at once, Kaner's heat pressed against his chest and wet, plush mouth working against his.

Kaner pulls away, lashes clumped dark and damp and mouth bitten red. "You did good," he says, leaning in again. Jon shudders violently when he drags his knuckles down Jon's back and slides his hand down the waistband of his shorts and he's barely wriggled them off before Kaner hooks his calf snug around Jon's to pull their hips flush. 

It's like Kaner's giving in to everything he was denying himself and taking Jon with him, all the pent up energy he'd been fidgeting out pouring through steady and fluid now, controlled. Jon feels like he's losing his, clutching desperately at the hot back of Kaner's thigh to hitch his leg up higher. 

"Fucking perfect every time," Kaner says. He's gone from half-asleep to rocking against Jon and kissing him hard, hands everywhere, _teeth_ everywhere, tugging at his lip and leaning in close to nip his jaw. Jon doesn't know if he's talking about him doing well or about how easy he is for Kaner touching him until he adds, "Except that running away thing." His breath is a hot damp huff of laughter on Jon's skin when his teeth scrape at his earlobe. "Gotta put a fucking leash on you."

"I don't think that's how it works." 

Kaner grins against Jon's cheek. "Pretty sure it works how I say it works," he says, and presses a small bottle of lube into Jon's hand from god knows where, stashed under the pillow knowing him. 

Jon fumbles with the bottle behind Kaner's back, and when he pushes in—two slick fingers because when Kaner wants something he wants as much as he can get—Kaner ripples against him, melting into him on another one of those slow sighs. Jon matches it, fingering Kaner slow and easy while he pants against Jon's collarbone and grinds on his thigh. Lazy at first and then more forceful, fucking against him impatiently until he throws his weight up and over to tip Jon onto his back and straddle him. Jon's half thinking Kaner's going to slide down on his dick only—

"Harder, come on," Kaner demands, and shoves back against Jon's hand. "Quit fucking around." 

Jon slaps the other hand on his ass too to hold him down, fingers thrusting as deep inside Kaner as he can get them, cupping his ass, and Kaner lets Jon do the work of grinding up against him, fucking himself on Jon's hand with a slow, sweet roll of his hips that makes Jon arch for the way it sends their dicks sliding together hot and hard against his stomach. 

Kaner's licking at his mouth and working his teeth over his lower lip so much Jon wishes he could lean up and do it for him, indulge that oral fixation of Kaner's for as long as they could stand it, but it would ruin the angle and the view, and more than he wants to kiss him Jon wants to watch Kaner fucking _take it_ , knowing Jon is his to take, his to use. 

It doesn't take long for Kaner to get close when he's getting exactly what he wants. He plants one hand on Jon's chest and gets the other wrapped around his own dick, mouth shaping words he doesn't voice, and he finishes himself off with a few painfully hard squeezes to shoot on Jon's chest and stomach.

It's quiet except for heavy breathing, and Jon thrusting up doesn't do him any good when Kaner's sitting up straight, tapping Jon's arm with his hand for him to pull out, looking tired but clear-eyed. Jon's so hard it hurts, and he's terrified that's it, that Kaner's done so they're done. 

"If you want to get off you should get to it," Kaner says, "or I'm just gonna pass out on you." Kaner's the one who likes playing to a crowd though, and Jon shifts uncomfortably. 

" _Patrick_ ," he pleads, like he almost never does. There's a tug of war of Jon pulling at Kaner's knees to urge him forward and Kaner trying to pull his hand away. Kaner glares at him and forcefully wrenches it up and Jon lets him. Watches him drizzle lube all over Jon's palm, slopping it everywhere. Kaner pushes his hand to his cock and it's too wet and painfully cold and Jon shivers down to his toes, thighs quivering under Kaner's weight. He wonders if Kaner did it on purpose just to make it last, to give himself a better show. Jon gives a few hesitant strokes— _seriously_ fucking cold—and it's uncomfortable right until the moment it's amazing, when enough lube works in and heats up and it's slick warmth and a tight fist that feels so good he regrets ever hesitating. Kaner has scooted back to sit on Jon's legs, thumbs rubbing idly over his hipbones, and the flush of his skin where Jon beat him is unbearably hot against his thighs, a fresh reminder of everything Jon's done to him— _for_ him.

"Go on," Kaner urges. Jon doesn't think he could stop himself even if Kaner said not to, but it still feels good to hear, and he closes his eyes and does that for Kaner too, panting quietly while he comes all over the mess Kaner left on him.

Kaner flops sideways with no grace at all to lay next to him, leaving his leg hooked over Jon's. He looks like he's going to pass out where he lays, which is just fine for him but Jon's fucking _covered_ in come and lube. 

He shifts incrementally as a warning before he whispers, "I'm gonna go clean up." 

"You coming back?" Kaner lifts his head enough to get both eyes open and focused sharply on Jon, but he's already moving to let him up, rolling onto his side. Jon gives him a dirty look and doesn't bother to answer.

If the blankets weren't turned down under him when Jon comes out of the bathroom he would've sworn Kaner hadn't moved a muscle. He squirms in to tuck under Jon's arm as soon as he lays down, tangles their legs and lays his arm over Jon's chest. If he can feel the tremors from Jon's thighs still shaking he doesn't show it. 

"You're gone when I wake up and next time I'm chaining your ankle to the bed before you thrash me," he warns, and he may be half-asleep and mumbling into Jon's chest but the tone makes it a solid threat. "We're talking tomorrow."

"You can't—"

"Talk tomorrow," Kaner interrupts, and squeezes the arm thrown over him. It's barely a hug. It shouldn't feel so good, do so much, make Jon squeeze back with the arm wrapped around Kaner's back while he stares hard at the ceiling. "You did good," Kaner adds, so quiet, and his breath evens out and his eyes stay closed. If he's really asleep Jon will feel bad for waking him up, if he's faking it he won't stop. And just like that the discussion's over. 

Jon decides he'll argue it in the morning, and goes to sleep with Kaner's words and weight holding him down. 

(He won't argue it in the morning.)


End file.
